


sabrina

by alisdas



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Insecurity, Witch!Reader, flustered peter is in LOVVEEEEEEEEE, peter is heart eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:21:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisdas/pseuds/alisdas
Summary: In which Peter’s mind has a mind of it’s own.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Reader, Spider-Man/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 128





	sabrina

Peter’s day is going _surprisingly_ well. 

A Spanish test he aced early in the morning, a school lunch that was actually edible – and Happy Hogan waiting for him outside Midtown High when the final bell has gone off, a sprinkling of powdered sugar on the chauffeur/personal assistant/bodyguard’s chin. 

“Hey, Hap,” he greets him, smiling in confusion. “What are you – what are you doing here?“ 

Happy – suddenly a lot more amiable since starting to date Aunt May – just nods towards the car. (And _yes_ , that _is_ nicer than usual.) "C'mon. Tony wants to meet you somewhere." 

So Peter hops into the back of the car and watches silently as Happy doesn’t begin towards the Compound upstate and instead makes the 40 minute drive to Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. No small talk, no _how was your day, Pete_ – which is preferred, because Happy tried the whole conversation thing when him and May first became a thing and it wasn’t comfortable for _anyone_. 

The _somewhere_ that Tony is waiting outside of is a pretty brownstone, shrouded in flowers and plants. There’s faded hopscotch marks on the pavement and the sound of laughing and drowned out music and the sun is shining and the air is warm but not _too_ warm—

Tony beams as Peter steps from the car and runs a hand through his hair, holding his hands out wide as if to say _Take a look at this, ey?_

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, peering up at the house. “Uh, what are we doing here? And _where_ is here, exactly?”

“I’m in need of the brooding teenager that lives on the top floor,” Tony explains unhelpfully. He adjusts his blazer impatiently as Peter lumbers up the stairs, eyes still fixed on the bunches of flowers spilling down the wall. _A new recruit?_ “And what better than another brooding teenager to sway their mind?”

“I don’t _brood_ ,” Peter says, but Tony claps his shoulder and guides him inside anyway. 

Tony knocks three times on the mustard yellow door on the top floor, leaning nonchalantly against the wall as a series of bangs and crashes erupt from the inside. Peter’s eyes flicker uncertainly between his mentor and the bright, unassuming door. Tony simply shoots him a smile and clasps his hands together. 

The woman who opens the door is tall and willowy, pale with a shock of red hair atop her head. When she sees who’s behind the door, she sighs – but opens the door wider, a small smile on her face. 

"Matilda!” Tony greets, stepping past her. “Great to see you. You’re looking amazing – not a day over 104. This is Peter, by the way.”

Peter waves shakily at the woman, watching as her eyes take on this amused sheen that makes him feel like an animal in a zoo. He swallows, following Tony inside, and Matilda shuts the door behind them. 

“I keep telling you she won’t agree,” Matilda says, slipping past them and into what can only be the kitchen. There’s the sound of running water, and then, a click. “Tea or coffee?" 

"Coffee. And I keep telling you that I’m stubborn, Tildy.”

While they converse, Peter takes it upon himself to take in – _marvel at_ – his surroundings. White walls and light brown floors and mismatched couches and cushions and curtains. Plants _everywhere_ ; beside the couches and on the windowsill and filling the tiny balcony to the brim – and dried parcels of herbs hang from the curtain rails, too.

Something about this place feels… electric. Call it his spidey senses, his _Peter tingle_ – but there’s something not normal about this apartment. Not bad in any way, but not _normal_. It feels like being offered a blanket on a cold day, like hugging in the rain, kissing under the stars… 

Like… _magic_. 

A hand on his shoulder makes him jump. Tony raises his brows. “You okay there, Underoos?" 

"F-fine,” Peter squeaks. He clears his throat, looking passed Tony to Matilda, who’s bustling around the kitchen. “You’ve got a lovely home, Miss Matilda!" 

And Matilda practically _chirps_ , a hand on her heart. "Oh, Tony. He’s a sweet one!" 

"Yeah, yeah, totally. Hey, why don’t us _adults_ converse in the kitchen, while _Peter_ here goes and fetches the woman of the minute?” Tony widens his eyes in a way that says _there’s no room for discussion_ , glancing back at Matilda for confirmation. 

Stammering, Peter looks between the two grinning adults. He can’t help but feel like he’s cornered, a tiny puppy pinned by German Shepherds – and he catches Matilda’s eyes, hoping that her appearance isn’t too misleading and she’s liable to take his side. But the lady simply beams and Tony is equally as happy, holding a hand out to a hallway off the side of the living room. 

“Just down that hallway,” Matilda says. 

Goddamnit. 

“I don’t even know where I’m going!” Peter says loudly as he begins towards the hallway, as if they’d suddenly change their minds and drag him back instead of leaving him to face whoever’s lurking down the hall. Whoever this _woman of the minute_ is. Peter’s hands begin to sweat. 

Tony never said anything about a new recruit. Though, he had been away from the Compound as of late with no excuses as to where he was — not that Peter was taking _note_ , or anything — but another teammate? And one as young as he was? Peter inhales shakily, wood creaking underneath his feet.

“H-hello?” He calls softly, head turning this way and that. The hall is dimly lit, even in the afternoon, and 4 doors are stamped into the walls. Great. Which one is it? 

Well – the first is a bathroom. He feels like an idiot, knocking and waiting and pressing an ear to the wood to make sure no-one’s inside before opening it up and peering in. The second is a storage room, filled with more strange objects that remind him of, well, Doctor Strange. Peter’s eyebrows furrow. Just who exactly are these people? And why was Tony so desperately asking after this mysterious girl?

The third door is locked — that only leaves one room. Peter feels like his lungs are working overtime — or maybe that’s just his overactive brain putting in too much effort to make him nervous. He steels himself, shaking his shoulders out, before raising his fist and knocking on the door.

And nothing. 

His eyes narrow, and he presses his ear to the door again. Pure, unadulterated silence. Eyebrows furrowing, he glances back down the hallway. Were they sure this girl was even home? 

The door creaks when Peter pushes it open with the tips of his fingers, revealing a room that is quite literally stuffed to the brim (and he knows he shouldn’t be walking in, _knows_ he shouldn’t be encroaching on someone’s space, but Peter Parker is an idiot and he’ll readily admit that to anyone who asks). It’s that type of messy that’s oddly organised — books piled almost to the ceiling on a desk beside the window, brightly coloured fabrics falling from the top of the bookshelf. A… cauldron on the desk? Peter steps in, positively taken with everything in front of him. It’s all so bright and attention-drawing and he can’t focus his eyes on one thing for too long — rocks glimmering on the windowsill and the air the smell of tea tree oil and lavender and—

Is that a _cat_?

Peter is one second from lunging forward and petting the void of black fur on the blanket-covered bed when there’s a voice from behind him.

“What are you doing in my room?”

He spins around so fast that the room spins with him and continues spinning for a few seconds after he’s stopped, heart in his throat and embarrassment clinging to his spine like a foul little parasite. His eyes settle, focus, and—

God, maybe it would be better for him if he turned back around. 

Peter’s never been good at talking to pretty girls and, well, the girl in front of him—

She wears skinny jeans and a stripy yellow crop top and a long, floral sweater that reaches her knees, hair tied in a messy bun atop her head and baby hairs secured by a yellow hairband. Smooth skin and pretty, pouty lips and long lashes. She stares at him with narrowed eyes, searching and searching and _searching_ and Peter’s not quite sure what she’s looking for but his mouth opens anyway, ready to stutter out an excuse—

“ _Ah_ ,” she says, nodding slowly. “I see.”

 _What_ does she see? “W-what do you see, exactly—?”

She moves around him quickly, only stopping for less than a second to pet the cat on her bed before rummaging through the piles of _stuff_ left around her room. She doesn’t reply; only hauls a massive book onto the little coffee table in the middle of the tiny room. Peter’s there to move the second one when she moves towards it, and she shoots him a little gracious smile that has him grinning through his confusion — and then she looks down at her books and doesn’t spare him a second glance.

“I’m _____, by the way,” she murmurs, flicking between pages. 

______. He doesn’t mean to be cheesy and say _beautiful name for a beautiful girl,_ but…

“I was looking for you,” Peter says, standing around awkwardly. “You weren’t in any of the rooms. All four of them.”

Her brows furrow. “We have more than four rooms. You just have to look for ‘em.”

 _Okaaaaay_. 

“Well,” he clears his throat, “I-I’m here with Tony. Stark. Tony Stark—”

“Yeah, I know,” _____ says. “What are you, his assistant?”

And she squints again, looking up at him suddenly. “No, you’re not.”

Peter’s mind feels like one of those really confusing cursed photos from 2011 that come with no context whatsoever. He’s confused, attracted, nervous, attracted, interested, _attracted_. His mind is fuzzy with the smell of incense and scented candles and so many colours and patterns and—

He shakes his head, closing his eyes for a second. He’s not sure whether it’s his spidey senses causing this sensory overload or _her_.

Peter clears his throat. “Uh, y-your mom’s really cool." 

"Who?” _____ says distractedly. She’s glancing rapidly between another few thick, dusty tomes, bottom lip pouting out more and more with each passing second – but then she registers what he’d said and she looks up, blinking owlishly. “What, you mean Matilda?" 

"Oh, yeah–" 

"She’s not my mom. We don’t even look anything alike, Peter.”

“Not everyo– wait, when did I tell you my name? I – I didn’t tell you my name. How do you know my name–?" 

"Peter,” _____ sighs, turning towards him and slapping her hands on her thighs. She fixes him with a look that says _you should’ve copped on by now, Parker_ , but all his stupid, _stupid_ brain can think about is how her yellow headband looks _really_ nice against her hair. “I’m reading from two books that are _centuries_ old. I knew your name before you told me it. There’s a _cauldron_ on my desk, gemstones on my window. My cat, whose name is _Salem_ , is sleeping on my bed.”

“Like in _Sabrina The Teenage Witch_?” If he sounded confused before… “But I don’t – _oh_.”

She nods, wide smirk suddenly on her lips. “Yeah. _Oh_.”

“Wha— So you’re like, a witch?” The nervousness that had rendered him jittery and unsure is suddenly gone with the wind, and he plops down on a little stool opposite her, eyes bright and fascinated. “You do magic? Like — like Doctor Strange?”

“Not quite.” She winces, as if the mention of the New York-born doctor makes her skin crawl. “His magic is very… uh, fancy. And he annoys me. So no, not like Doctor Strange.”

“Well, what can you do, then?”

She shrugs and suddenly pushes her books away. All of her attention is on _him_ , and Peter only gulps once before getting a handle on his nerves.

“I can make stuff float,” she starts, glancing up at the ceiling in thought. “And make things combust. Potions and stuff, too. And read minds — that’s how I knew what your name was.”

Peter gapes in wonder, and then blanches. “W-wait, you can hear _everything_ I’m thinking?”

His mind — against his will, mind you — erupts in flashes of memories of _she’s so pretty_ and _wow, her hair is nice_ and _her lips look soft_ and—

_____ ’s lips spread into another devilish smirk. “Yeah, I can.”

And then she winks and goes back to her books and Peter’s cheeks are so _red_ and _God this is embarrassing, why did Tony bring me here?_ But when _____ finally gets up and leads Peter back to the kitchen where an expectant Tony and Matilda are waiting, little teacups in hand, _____ folds her arms and nods.

“Whatever,” she says, casting a glance Peter’s way as she slips into the kitchen. “I’ll help your little team.”

(The car ride home is an hour of teasing and arm punches and _I knew she’d come around if you were there, I_ knew _it—_ )

So yeah, Peter’s day is going _surprisingly_ well.

Soon _____ starts popping up _everywhere,_ inserting herself into his routine and rocking his world in such a sweet way that he doesn’t even _complain_ when Tony lets her pick the music in the labs. It only took him a few months to get that privilege, but it’s whatever – because now whenever he hears Fleetwood Mac and Hozier he’ll only think of her and he thinks that little hit to his pride is a small price to pay. 

She’s in the lab from morning till night, usually, because she’s homeschooled by Matilda and has taken a break from conventional studies to study the mystic arts, anyways. The labs were never particularly cold or uninviting or silent – the sound of AC/DC blaring through the entire floor and Tony chewing out Dum-E periodically – but she brings this sense of warmth that hasn’t gone unnoticed. By him, at least. 

Peter, for one, thinks she makes a good addition to the little ragtag group of scientists that Tony’s accumulated — Banner, Peter, Tony, Shuri (when she isn’t busy)–

“Of course you do,” an accented voice coos from across the room. “You’ve got a crush, Peter!" 

"Get out of my head!” Peter exclaims, irritated and face flaming, shoving a cushion over his face. Between Wanda and you, it’s like his brain is a free-for-all. 

“I can’t help it!” Wanda’s shoulders fly high to her ears, and her knitting stalls momentarily. “You project a _lot_ , Peter. I’m surprised _____ hasn’t already scooped you up.”

Peter groans. Just what he wants to hear – the very thing that’s been bugging him since he got over the month-long period of denying his feelings. No matter how much he tries to hide it, it’s very clear that he likes you. If not from his seemingly incurable stammering when you’re around, or his ruby-red cheeks and sweaty palms, then from this so-called projection that Wanda complains about. 

He couldn’t help it. It’s like his mind had – for lack of better wording – a mind of its own. _Don’t think about how nice she looks today. But goddammit, she does. Yellow really is her colour, huh? I don’t think any colour would look bad on her, actually. When you’re that beautiful–_

And then you giggle to yourself and Peter realises that he’s done the exact opposite of what he’s intended. 

God, he can’t help that he likes you! Anyone with two brain cells and a beating heart would! Even Ned admitted that you were _smoking_ when Peter showed him a pic he sneaked of you — and then had apologised when Peter glared at him, teasing; _alright, alright, I won’t steal your girl—_

So why hadn’t you _scooped him up_ , as Wanda put it? He knows he’s got a lot of faults; he breaks out on his chin when he’s stressed and he eats too many pudding cups and he’s a bit on the shorter side but—

“No!” Wanda exclaims, setting her knitting onto her lap. “Peter, that’s not it at _all_.”

“How do _you_ know?” His voice is a whine underneath the cushion. It’s hard not to assume that’s the reason when it’s painfully clear to everyone that he likes you. In fact, the whole thing feels like a train wreck waiting to happen.

“She projects just as much, you know,” Wanda says wisely, and when Peter hesitantly peeks over the cushion at her she’s smiling at him in that way that says _trust me, Peter._ “But maybe it’s not my place…”

“ _No_!” He surges forward and lands on his knees in front of Wanda, grabbing her hands. “Wanda, Wanda _please_ , I’ll never ask you for anything ever again—”

“Okay, okay!” She breaks into a fit of giggles, leaning in conspiratorially. “She thinks you’re _adorable_ , Peter. And _strong_. And she loves how floppy your hair is and how you talk about Star Wars all the time.”

“Really?” He falls back to sit on his haunches, a contagious grin blooming on his face. “She… she thinks I’m adorable. And strong.”

“Yes. _And_ she likes your floppy hair. It reminds her of chocolate.” And Wanda nods and takes up her needles again as if she hadn’t just dropped the biggest bomb of all time on him, leaving Peter Benjamin Parker dazed and giddy. 

“You know,” Wanda says, “I think she said something about studying love potions in her free time. I’m sure she’d like your help. They’re supposed to be tricky.”

He freezes suddenly, as if suddenly faced with the reality that _he’d_ have to confront _you_. _Yikes_. But he stumbles to his feet anyway. “Y-yeah,” he says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “I’ll do that.”

“She’s in the labs, Peter!” Wanda calls after him. “Don’t worry, Tony and Bruce are on lunch~!”

(The teasing tone on which she ends makes his cheeks flush to hell and back. What exactly did she think they’d get up to? K-kissing? _As if_ …)

((But he kinda hopes they do. Okay, he definitely does.))

A hop, skip and a jump (or, more realistically, an elevator ride) and Peter’s on sublevel 3. Two main labs and 4 smaller ones, as well as Tony’s personal lab-away-from-home. That’s where you tended to be when you visited — Tony appreciated working alone but he appreciated company even more. Especially the company of another _condescending teen_ — Tony’s words, not Peter’s, though they were said with Tony’s type of hidden affection and a ruffling hand to your hair.

Peter glances through the clear protective glass doors and spots the haphazard bun in a second, peeking out from behind a prototype leg for Tony’s next suit of armour. He inhales deeply, straightening up and shaking out his limbs nervously. Then, a few slaps to the face. 

“C’mon, Parker,” he says, jogging lightly for a few seconds and screwing his eyes shut. “C’mon. You got this. You got this—”

_Bang bang bang!_

Peter nearly _screams_. 

“Are you coming in or not?” You say, voice muffled through the grass. You have a teasing smile on your face, and you tilt your head to the side as he simply stares, open-mouthed. “You look like an idiot, Parker.”

“Shut up,” he mumbles — but his cheeks are bright pink. He’s suddenly self-conscious of his hair. You think it looks like chocolate. Does it look okay? He washed it yesterday but he fell asleep in English and he hasn’t brushed it since—

He steps through the door and listens as it seals behind him. You’re already back at your table, flipping through a book that you’ve brought from home.

“H-hey,” he breathes. He clears his throat, lingering by the doorway before realising that he looks like an awkward idiot and walking in further. He takes a chair on the opposite side of your workspace, looking over the teensy glass vials dotted around the table. Love potions, eh? “Uh, Wanda said something about love potions?”

“Yeah,” you say, frowning down at a confusing looking diagram. “School stuff. Hey, are you okay? You look nervous.”

“Nah. _Naaaah_. Why would I be nervous? There’s nothing to be nervous about.” Yeah, way to sell it, Parker. “Uh, so, tell me about love potions, then.”

“You’re willingly letting me talk your ear off about magic? It’s _your_ death, Peter,” you say, smirking deviously. “I’ve got the top ten most dangerous love potions in the known world right here. Wicked, right?”

“Totally,” he mumbles. ( _Keep your mind_ clear _, Peter._ )

“None of them actually cause _love_. That can’t be replicated by magic of any kind. But this one,” you begin, holding up a bright yellow one, “Causes deep, deep infatuation. Odourless and tasteless, and it doesn’t wear off unless you get an antidote in you within the first 24 hours after consuming it.”

“…Jesus.”

“Yeah,” you say, laughing. “Oo, this one’s nice—” It’s another little bottle filled with a glittering, pink liquid that shifts and sways in the light. “This is a popular one. Another one that causes deep infatuation, though it wears off with time — but get this. It smells _different_ to each person. You smell your _soulmate_ , Peter. Isn’t that neat?”

And he doesn’t mean to do it, really — but his mind is so _fucking_ loud and the thought comes out of _nowhere_ :

_I bet I’d smell your perfume._

You flinch. A full body flinch that makes you wince and your pen fall out of your hand. His stomach turns and his skin heats up from his neck to his cheeks.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, looking down at the table. God, his hands are shaking, but… _Now or never, Peter_. “But I… it’s true.”

“Peter.”

“You know it’s true,” he says. It’s all spilling out like water from a tap — except the tap is broken and can’t close, so the water just keeps flowing and flowing and flowing… “You can hear my thoughts, you _know_ that it’s true—”

“Look,” you say, standing sudden and _angry_. “I — you don’t like me, Parker.”

“Yes, I do,” he insists, slipping from his seat to meet you. “I — you’ve heard my thoughts, you _know_ what I think about you—”

“You like the _idea_ of me.” You sound so exasperated, so tired, and Peter is just irritated that you’d think for one second that he doesn’t like you completely and fully. “You think I’m some magical girl who’s always confident and happy and it’s _not true_ , okay? You’re gonna get to know the real me and you’ll get tired real quick, okay?”

“That’s _not true_!” He says, eyebrows furrowing. He reaches for your hands and you move away as if you’ve been burned — and there’s this tightness in his throat, like he’ll start crying solely from frustration. “That’s — I really, really like you. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because no-one ever does!” You yell. The sudden loudness catches him off guard, snaps his mouth shut. “Have you ever wondered why I live with Matilda, Peter? She’s not my mom. She’s not _related_ to me in any way. She took me in because I was left on her doorstep by some random couple who decided their freak baby was too much to handle!”

His heart _hurts_. Genuinely, truly hurts. Your eyes are glassy and your fists are clenched and this bothers you more than you let on but he can’t even hug you because you’re _so_ closed off, _so_ used to just dealing with it by yourself. And he doesn’t want you to. He wants to scoop you up and hug you close and just feel your heartbeat against his because he knows that’s what would calm _him_ down.

“And you’re gonna do the same,” you mutter, voice breaking. You clear your throat then, wiping at your weeping nose with the back of your hand. “You’re gonna do the same, Peter, when you realise that this isn’t all rainbows and cupcakes and _Sabrina The Teenage Witch_. There’s… there’s dark stuff out there, okay? And sometimes I… I need help not getting into it.”

“But I want to help you!” He says desperately. “I-it might be hard but if you need it I’ll give it because I lo—”

“Don’t say that,” you snap. “Don’t you dare say what you were about to say.”

You round the table again and begin to fiddle with whatever you can find — a habit reminiscent of Tony — and Peter’s eyes suddenly zero in on something: that little bottle of pink, glimmering and shimmering in the bright fluorescent lights. Before you can notice what he’s doing, he bolts forward and takes it in his hand.

“Put that _down_!” You hiss, storming over to pull it from his hand — but he holds it high above his head and you’re so emotionally distraught that you don’t even _think_ of using magic against him. “Peter, this isn’t a joke—”

“You say that I don’t love you,” he says strongly, catching and holding your gaze. “But if I open this and I smell you then you’ll _know_ that I do.”

“Or you could smell someone entirely different,” you say. You jump higher, grappling for the bottle, a hint of panic in your voice. “Peter, please, I can’t—”

“It will be you,” Peter says. And he’s so _sure_ of it, so damned sure that it’s you that he’s gonna smell that your eyes start watering. Because you’re scared, of course; scared that he’ll have someone else in that bottle. MJ, maybe, or that girl whose dad he beat up. Liz, was it? All safer and more normal than you. “____, look at me—”

And he grasps your chin between his left hand and forces you to meet his eyes, bottom lip trembling and breathing uneven.

“It’s gonna be you. It always is.”

And he pops open the stopper and holds it in front of his nose and—

“I can’t smell anything,” he says confusedly. You freeze, hand just less than a centimetre from the vial. He waves it in front of his nose again. “It just smells like… _Oh_.”

“Oh,” you murmur. You look genuinely surprised.

It smells like the air does now — the slight smell of burning plastic from where Tony was messing around with some wires. Old books, incense, and — of course, of course — your perfume. It just smells like he’s breathing in what’s around him. 

“I _told_ you.”

“Shut _up_.” And you snatch the vial away and turn your back to him, slamming it down on the table top with an unnecessary amount of force. “For God’s sake.”

“Do you believe me now?”

“…”

“Hey—” His hand touches your shoulder and you slap it away at _once_. He’s not prepared, obviously, but he’s especially not prepared to see your eyes bloodshot and your mascara smudging underneath your eyes. “Hey, what’s wrong—?”

“I asked you not to touch that!” You cry. “You — what would you have done if you smelled something else, huh? God, you never _think—_ ”

“I _was_ thinking,” he says. “About you.”

“Oh, how _rich_.”

“It’s not rich, it’s the truth—”

“Goddamnit, Parker, are you gonna kiss me or not?”

 _What_?

“W-wha—?”

You sniffle, shrugging your shoulders. “You can’t just reveal that we’re soulmates and then not do something about it, doofus.”

“W— you’re crying! I didn’t think it was a good time!”

“Well, just—”

“O-okay—”

(He’s kissed before, right? He can do this. He’s got experience and stuff.)

Just one, first. A small little peck that makes his hands shake. But he places his hands on your hips after and yours are on his shoulders and you come closer again so he can kiss you _again_. And it’s slower, this time. Your lips are soft and smooth with lipbalm and you taste like the sour apple candy you can’t get enough of. His heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs lowly when he pulls back a few minutes later. Panting heavily, he rests his forehead against yours. “Never.”

“You better not,” you mumble in return, before leaning forward again, and—

“ _Well, what do we have here_?” A smug voice says loudly. There’s a banging on the glass, and Peter pulls away from _____ — his girlfriend, his mind reminds him giddily — to see Tony with his nose pressed against the glass and a goofy grin on his face. Behind him, Banner waves awkwardly.

_____ blinks. “I… think Tony’s back from lunch.”

“Yeah.”

“ _Hell yeah I am_!”


End file.
